If Death Could Sing
by Julie Tulips
Summary: Gerard Hornwell had wanted to be a detective for as long as he could remember, but luck had never come his way - a bicycle theft was all he had solved so far. That changes when a mysterious woman enters his office. And here begins a tale of suspense, family love, and murder. Rated T for mentions of murder, just to be on the safe side. OC. I don't own the Harry Potter world.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: This was based off a roleplay. The plot of the mystery does belong to me; however, it was the initial setup that gave me the idea, although the character's name and personality, to some degree, have been changed. If this person knows who they are and contacts me, they will be credited for their input. Otherwise, enjoy!**

The left side of the left double door swung freely in the breeze. It had never quite locked, despite being repaired numerous times. Every morning Gerard would curse at it, kneel, the thick floorboards jabbing between his bones, and point his wand at it, muttering spell after spell until it was mended – and yet, by early evening, the hinges would have snapped once more, the door would angle itself, hanging on by a few splinters of wood, and the howling winds of Diagon Alley would sweep through the tiny room, over the dusty shelves of thin, frayed paperbacks, over the slick feathers of the single quill resting in an ink jar on the rickety desk, and over the faded navy lettering that read "G. H. Hornwell, private detective". At least, the sign above the Muggle entrance, leading into Muggle London, was written in navy. The sign above the magical entrance was a darker color and the letters changed fonts every couple of hours. Kept things interesting.

Gerard Hornwell had wanted to be a detective for as long as he could remember. He sneered at his mother's crossword puzzles, over her words that spilled and danced through the fibers of her knitting, because they didn't come together. They were just words – words without a collective meaning. Books, now, he relished in books. He could sit in the corner of the sunlit boudoir, flipping the pages and fighting against the breeze for the right to turn them. He found meaning in every glance, in every word, in every half-chewed lip. Kids would call him "Blinded G" because of his glasses. But Blinded G was never blind – not to the world he lived in. Every muffled footstep, every chip in a fence seemed to call his name. Read me, they begged. Discover me. Collect my story and carry it in your head like a dusk-bathed flower in a basket.

Thirty years later, and Blinded G – or what he was now called, Detective Hornwell – sat in a tiny room. One desk, one bookshelf across from it, and one door to each side – Muggle and Magical - and one bell to each door. Admittedly, he should have been much more famous than he was. After all, he had never lost a case.

Of course, he'd only had two so far, but that wasn't the important part.

He had wanted marble flooring, velvet chairs and newspaper clippings in three-Galleon frames, but now that he had what he had, he was happy. It was the stories that got to him. The two stories that he'd gotten to witness. Although petty crimes – one a stolen bike, the other quickly resolved as a case of mistaken identity – the characters still walked his room when he closed his eyes. The boisterous boy who had jammed his hand into every drawer, the middle-aged red-headed man with a couple of Sickles in his pocket, the swollen eye and lanky limbs of the teenage bike thief. It was Hornwell's sacred collection of souls, and he wouldn't trade them in for the world.

Just then, the world rang the Diagon Alley bell.

Hornwell sat down and rubbed his hands. Magical crime was always more interesting. The door opened as a woman stepped in. She seemed about fifty, although the energy in her step placed her age rather at thirty-five. Her dress was of an expensive, but beaten fabric. It was soiled and soggy near the bottom, ripped and torn at the sleeves, and the collar line clumsily mended. Hornwell stood up. The woman looked like she had slept in the gutter – but she stood tall, her head held high, and her blue eyes surveyed the room, agonizingly slowly.

"Are you Detective Hornwell?" She asked scornfully.

"That's me."

"And this is… temporary, I assume?"

"Not exactly, miss, see – "

Her sigh cut him off. Her eye twitched, a hidden battle between disgust and desperation raging within.

"You'll have to do." She helped herself to a chair, sweeping a candle from a shelf to give her somewhere to rest her hand, pale and elegant.

"You've got to help me," She suddenly burst out, breaking through her film of regality. "You've got to help me, you've got to find them."

"May I ask your name?" Hornwell threw over his shoulder, pulling a notebook from a shelf. He felt a presence behind him, and then an icy grip on his shoulder. A hissed whisper in his ear. "My name is Calypso," The woman whispered. "My last name is of little consequence, other than the notion that it was once one of the richest wizarding families of Scotland. And if you value your life, Detective Hornwell, you will take notes with nothing but your ears."

He turned and she was sitting back in the chair, the very image of broken, worn-down pride.

"My husband," She said. "He's dead. He died."

Hornwell froze. A murder. This was a whole different game. It was an adventure his heart yearned to grasp. "Lead me to the crime scene, Miss Calypso," He babbled eagerly.

"My husband, Detective Hornwell, died four years ago. And the sky is darkening every minute. I may come home and my daughter will be dead. My Seline will be dead." She raised her head and her eyes, proud and mighty, brimmed with tears.

"Please, Detective Hornwell." She emptied five Galleons onto the table.

He slid the money into a pouch and then leaned over to her. "Calm down, madam. Calm down and tell me everything."

**AN: Please review! This will be my first fanfic in this style as opposed to cut-off sequences of action, as well as my first long multi-character fanfiction. This will develop into a full murder mystery and I hope you all enjoy it. **** Thank you for everyone's support! ~JT**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Sorry for the long wait. School got in the way, and a mystery has to be thought out because I can't just throw in random plot details later on. Thank you for understanding and enjoy! By the way, thank you for all your amazing reviews. I get a kick out of them, and no, despite popular belief, I am /not/ dead! And yes, I am a huge Whovian for those who have been asking, and some Who fics may be up soon. I ship Doctor/River, my favorite Doctor is the Eleventh, or Matt Smith, my favorite companion is River Song or, if she doesn't count, Amy, and my favorite series is either series four or series six. Anyway, allons-y!**

**Chapter two: Calypso's Story**

The woman got settled, nervously breathing in the warm air. Her dark eyes avoided his, flitting around the room. Gerard sat eager on the edge of his seat, gripping the quill so hard it felt as if it would break from anticipation.

"It was a hot day in June," Calypso began. "When I was young, I fell in love with a merchant. He was so very sweet and amazingly loving. He drew me in, swept me straight off my feet. My mother was against our marriage. 'You are noble, and he is nothing', she would say. She then told me she would not give her blessing, but that didn't stop me. Finally, she told me she'd burn me off the family tree. Young and in love as I was, I ran from home, leaving my parents, my uncle and my little baby sister Selene behind. "

"Sister? But you said – "

"She was so young and I was already in my twenties – I could barely consider her a sister. As events unfolded, I ended up having to raise her, and so consider her my adoptive daughter in all legal respects. May I continue?"

"Of course, of course," Hornwell sputtered hurriedly, his quill scratching grooves furiously into the parchment.

"And could you slow down, that awful scratching hurts my ears."

He dipped the quill into his ink bottle with an apologetic look. "Sorry, Madam, I – "

"No matter. I ran away with Henry, the merchant. He sold potions ingredients, herbs and he like, as a cheaper alternative to the apothecary's, and made good business with scholars, stay-at-home witches and poorer schoolchildren. He was of low class but of highest heart and pride. We lived happily near his parents for a little while, until a tiny, silver-grey owl flew in through the window of our shop. I remember well, its wing was scorched black as if a bringer of bad news, and so it was.

"My family home had been struck by lightning during a storm and set on fire. The house burned like a sparkler, spewing death like black smoke, killing my parents and my uncle. Seline, however, at the time a small, frail four-year-old, had survived, having been playing in the empty fire-grate. The chimney collapsed and the brick collapsed onto her, creating a cavern in which she was safe from the flames. As the only surviving relative, whether on the tree or not, Seline was brought to me and so I raised her as my own child.

"Now, my husband's parents were never very fond of me, but they managed to put up a polite façade of complacency. But they were quite superstitious, sir. His father thought that Seline must have been the devil herself to have survived such a terrible flame, and urged my Henry to part with us. I myself had always thought she must've been spared by angels. We ran to London, finding a small flat in the lower town. We lived happily for two more years until it happened.

"Henry woke up one night and his lips were tinted green, as was his face. Night by night, he got worse, until finally he died. The coroner told me he died of poison, intentionally brewed poison – but who would do such a thing, I cannot imagine. Seline was six years old."

"Was there anything there that night? Did you see anything, hear anything?"

"And there was a cross on my door, sir. A small cross made in blood, and feathers by our doorstep. Seline seemed quite distraught."

"Well that is to be expected, her father had just been murdered!"

"Of course. " Her lip quivered but she quickly stiffened it. He stood. "Coffee?"

"I'd prefer a glass of sherry, if you don't mind."

A moment later a delicate little glass was in her hand and with small sips to calm her nerves she continued.

"I stayed in the house with Seline until my neighbour, a young college man, began to complain to the authorities. He told them my damper and temporary alcoholism was putting a bad reputation to the neighbourhood and that it was disgusting to witness. The authorities, of course, did nothing, but his spiteful comments were hurting Seline. Soon after my husband's business closed down, and we had no money, and were forced to abandon the tiny flat and leave.

"We made it out into the countryside where we met an old, pleasant farmer who agreed to let us stay for a few nights until I could contact my husband's parents and a few other connections we had. He also let me use his owl. We went to bed peacefully – myself on the haystacks, him in his bedroom and Seline on the spare couch in the hall - but when morning came, a bloody cross was on the front door and the farmer was dead inside, stabbed to the neck in his sleep. I had heard no one come or go in the night, and there were no footsteps on the walkway."

Hornwell had already broken his quill and was now writing with the broken lower half, scratching his wrists with it in the process, terrified of missing a single detail of her enticing narrative.

"Finally, the reason I had come to you. We have since made money and returned to the flat in which we lived before my husband's death. This morning came Seline's Hogwarts letter. I was of course so very proud, until I saw the envelope. It had been broken into. I pulled out the paper and Seline ran terrified into the next room.

"There was a red bloody cross on the parchment.

"Help me, detective. Help me before she is dead."

"Take me to the crime scene," He whispered, looking like a child given the new toy he had always dreamed of.

Gerard Hornwell's life had finally begun.


	3. Chapter 3

Calypso walked in strides across the bleary, crumbling walkway. Gerard shuffled beside her, showering her with questions, but she walked on, proud and dainty, having said all she could say and now remaining in stoic silence. A cold wind sliced through the autumn air, shaking the small wooden stands selling everything from potion ingredients to old robes. Tobacco smoke travelled upwards, escaping the fat wooden pipes of the hollering men, coiling high above the heads of the tallest of passerby before angrily throwing itself at the thin and creaking window-panes. The lady's handkerchief crumbled in her hands as her fingers traced the border, stitched in midnight blue. The white fabric was stained with wine.

This was not a wizarding street much frequented by what Gerard considered to be 'the upper class' – it resembled more a sort of rat's nest of life the not-well-to-be-but-not-poor had managed to scrape together. At Calypso's appearance, however, a certain hush would fall over certain inhabitants, and while every running youngster jostled her, the children would look up with wide eyes, their game forgotten. Here she was, they would think. The Queen of the street – the highest authority in a place where there was none to be found.

She passed a shop near the end of the street, with yellowing bricks bruised by time. The display boasted of expensive carpets. "This used to be my husband's shop," She said, speaking for the first time, her voice muffled by the shouts of playing schoolchildren. "It now belongs to my neighbor, who so ungracefully began to spread rumors about us soon after my husband's death. The next door is mine."

"And whose houses are those above and the one on the side and across?"

"The above is empty," She said. "Their owner is an old woman, in her eighties, and she's looking to rent it out. However, it has not been empty long, and for years it was occupied by several women running an independent paper. We once had one of them, Bernadette, hired at our shop to help with the customers, and she was a nightmare, she was. She'd be a nightmare to me but perfect little lass to my husband, which is why he refused to fire her – if I didn't know better I'd say she fancied him."

"Do you suspect her at all in the murder case?"

"Bernadette? Goodness, no! More foolish and plain a girl I'd never known – no care in the world save ribbons and robes. Besides, how would she have followed us to the farmers, and what interest would she have in terrorizing my poor Seline?"

"And in the house beside your own?" Gerard asked, scratchy quill moving on paper again.

"Some young lad. Don't know his name. Never spoke to him – he keeps to himself. And across – "Calypso said, before Gerard could ask the question – "Is a storage-house of sorts, for breads and pastas."

She pushed open the door to her home. The stairs were winding and dusty; the railings copper-colored. They could have shone once, if it was not for the thick layer of grime. Gerard sneezed and earned a glare from Calypso that could have woken the dead.

"We _have_ only just moved in, _Mr. Detective_."

His retort was interrupted by the sound of feet running down the stairs until a little girl came into their view. Her face showed her to be the age of ten, eleven at most, but her body corresponded to a child no older than seven. Her waist dipped as the tiniest of curves began to form; nature's shy beginning to what would become a mature young woman in a number of years. Her hair was dark, brown with hints of red, and curled into ringlets. This careful hairdo had been frazzled throughout the course of the day, not to mention the bounding run down the stairs. She wore robes of a dark red hue which clung to her body, her small wrists, and her awkwardly long fingers. The girl kept on shifting from toe to toe, restless, as her blue eyes shone out of the dust. She looked at Gerard with an expression of interest and childlike curiosity. "So you're the detective, then." A moment later her bottom lip began to quiver. "Oh, please, could you save me, sir… I am so dreadfully scared!" She hugged the man, quickly tugged away by her mother with a curt 'that's enough, Seline' and a kiss on the brow. Seline grabbed the man's hand and dragged him inside. "Let me show you the house, Mr. Detective! " The child cried.

The first room was the sitting-room, warmed by a shallow fire. The carpet was faded and dusty, as was everything else in the house. The sofa was stained with tea and wine, and the room smelled of parchment. Books lined the walls - fiction, reference, flying, history, healing, any book that could be desired. A small groove could be visible on on of the shelves, and once Gerard pressed down upon it, it slid apart, revealing another room. He raised his eyebrows.

"This was the spare-room, " Seline said.

The spare-room was empty and did not contain much, save a few buckets, cleaning supplies, a mirror, a half-broken couch and a pair of women's bright red shoes. "There's nothing to see in there," Calypso called from the staircase, impatient.

Gerard closed the shelf and mounted the stairs. The next room was a bedroom - A single double bed, a few windows, and a table piled high with books and papers, including the letter marked with a bloody X. Seline's eyes seemed drawn to it and Gerard scooped it up, tucking it into his waistcoat for future reference. Calypso bit her lip, but did not comment on this intrusion. "This was the room of my husband and I," She said. "Seline now insists on sleeping with me - she has, indeed, since the death of her father. Sweet girl, how could I refuse?"

The detective carefully scanned the room. In the corner stood a wardrobe. He opened it, revealing nothing more interesting than Calypso's wardrobe - which for some reason consisted entirely of black and dark fabrics, not a single bright item in sight. He then knelt down, opening a drawer and being rewarded with a collection of Seline's toys, which seemed not to have been touched in a long while. The room seemed empty and deserted, as if having once had a spirit to it - but now that spirit was gone. The curtains flapped in the cold wind, embroidered with red stitching. "Bernadette's work," Calypso said with disdain. "When she _did_ consent to work she was a marvel."

One more room up. A small pantry, smelling strongly of spices. On one wall were cooking ingredients, and on the other, potion bottles. "He was real good with potions," Seline piped up happily. The wall certainly was full of bottles : "Sleeping Draught", proclaimed one, "Polyjuice Potion", claimed another, "Felix Felicis - unfinished", a third. A single window lit the room, the windowsill covered in pots. Moving them, Gerard found the imprint of owl claws, and at this sight Calypso frowned. "That is most peculiar," she said. "We do not keep an owl." Seline looked closer. "Looks like the marks of an eagle-owl, like the one of the merchant. Perhaps he came up here while we were gone to air out the rooms and sent a letter or two."

Gerard descended the steps, finding himself back in the sitting room. "Good day, Miss Calypso," He bowed. "For I have seen all I could see in this home."

**(Update: typos fixed. Thank you for the reviews and I'm sorry for the slow updates. A few more chapters remain in this story. I hope you enjoy the test to your deductive skills... Goodnight!)**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Despite popular belief, I have not died. Those who know me will testify that the lack of updates to this fanfiction is due to my laziness, overwhelmed schedule and quite a few other factors. I hope you enjoy this, even though it is long overdue! Also thank you for the reviews! It is honestly amazing to get such appreciation from readers. I am aware that I make grammar mistakes. My first language is not English, but I've lived in Canada for fourteen years now so I don't get excuses. I will try to get around to the grammar fixes soon, so please do continue pointing those out. Sometimes I miss them and I'm simply unaware.**

**Also... feel free to begin posting any theories or guesses you may have. I am curious. The setting has been cleared up in this chapter and I kind of enjoyed the idea of not making it clear straightaway. It's not like there are calendars papering every wall in real life, are there?**

**Finally, please let me know if anyone would want a clue walk-through at the end of the story. There are quite a bit of clues in here already - enough to solve it, if you're very attentive. More so than Gerard is. Some point the right way, some are there to confuse you. But it is possible. At least, I think so - but I know the resolution, of course.**

**Anyway, enjoy!**

Gerard stood outside the thin townhouse, peering through his thick frames at the scrawled address in his hand. The paper was a bit slimy from sweat at the edges, and the writing itself was smudged from constant rubbing. "81 Addington Way." Well, this was almost certainly Addington Way – the greasy, charcoaled sign hung loosely from its post, flapping in the November wind. The detective drew his cloak tighter around his stocky frame, huffing in annoyance as little wisps of mousy brown hair caught themselves in the joints of his glasses. The number on the tiny brick dwelling before him was so faded that it would have been hard to discern even if it weren't almost completely covered over with ivy. Just as he thought how lovely it would have been to make a neat new sign, the paper blew out of his hand and danced tantalizingly down the alleyway. Another second – and his calloused fingers grasped the knocker. It fell down with a short knock quickly blown away by the wind.

"Coming, Evangeline!" came a girly, excited voice. Gerard barely had a moment's notice to wonder at the identity of Evangeline when down the hall came the deep clicking sound of high-heeled shoes, a slight scrape of shoe against carpet and then a rapt snap as the doorknob turned.

The detective removed his glasses, wiped them on his soiled pockets and jammed them back onto his face. A woman stood before him, but not quite the cocky temptress he had been imagining. She was rather small, with thin, long hair the colour of faded lemon. Her eyes were lidded with a tiring life and her fingers fumbled, catching the lace of her sleeve again and again. She looked to be about thirty. A slim red dress hugged her figure – her thickened hips, awkward shoulders, thick lips. In a strange way, however, Gerard found her to be pretty. There was no lie in the grey eyes – only exhaustion and honesty.

She gave a bit of a start when instead of her lady friend she found an odd gentleman wearing a cloak. "And who might you be?"

"Gerard Hornwell. Detective," He said, fumbling his words ever so slightly. "You must be Bernadette, I – I'm here to investigate the murder of Mr-" It then suddenly occurred to him that he still didn't know Calypso's last name. "Calypso's husband, if I may so express the – erm – the matter at hand."

Something in the woman's gaze sparkled. "You come right in. I'm meant to go see a picture with Evangeline, but she don't show up anyway. It really don't matter. You come right in, Mr Detective." Gerard had barely time to sit down before he was being handed an ever-so-delicate cup of tea.

"You must forgive me, those things are ancient," She said with a roll of her eyes, throwing herself onto the sofa and watching the cloud of dust form intricate webs in the stuffy air. "Got them in 1885. A whole ten years ago." The man nodded, paying her very little attention – and much more attention to his surroundings.

The room was full of things that were sure to break within the year. Unlike Calypso's messy air of past grandeur, it was a humble home – but very demonstrative of the specific taste of its mistress. Bright lilac curtains framed the scraped, old window. The window-sill was full of potted flowers. Pansies, roses, forget-me-nots and faded sunflowers all competed for his attention in a myriad of shades. Underneath stood a wardrobe, neatly tucked between two walls and nearly having the life squeezed out of its bronzen knobs. Underneath stood a shoe rack – full to the brim with the latest fashions.

Bernadette gave a small laugh. "Yes, I've got quite the collection. Bit of a guilty pleasure, Mr Detective. More tea?"

"No, thank you," said Gerard, staring at the shoes. Another memory surfaced from his groggy mind – a pair of bright, red heels…

The rest of the room was just as orderly, and yet just as untame. A tiger-print rug lay on the cheap flooring. Candle-holders gleamed with their ivory treasures from the vanity. Mirrors hung from the ceiling, reflecting every corner of Bernadette's fading beauty.

"You used to work for him."

She nearly choked on her tea. "What?"

"You used to work for him," Gerard repeated, keeping his voice carefully even and confident.

She let out a breath and put down her cup, dropping in a sugar cube and stirring it in. "Yes," she admitted. "I did work for him. I ran the shop, I cleaned the floors, and I did him a few small personal favours. Made curtains, arranged fruit – what's it to you?"

"You did more than work for him."

In a second, her calm demeanour gave way to glowering rage and their eyes met in silent challenge. "I did not."

"You and him had an affair," Gerard repeated. "Did you not?"

Bernadette did not shift her gaze, but her lip quivered. "I've never heard any such thing. No such thing, sir."

"I saw your shoes in her home."

"Simple coincidence."

"It's a kindly shopkeeper to do her master's embroidery."

"He was kind to me."

"Calypso suspects it."

The tea went crashing to the floor as she stood. She towered over him. Her fists were clenched, fingernails digging into her flesh to keep tears at bay. A few drops threatened to spill from her sockets. Her lip quivered and her gaze glowed with hatred. "I'm afraid I will have to show you the door, sir," she managed with a quavering voice.

Thoughts ran rampage in Gerard's head. Motives. Jealousy. A mistress in a fight with her lover for the affections given to his wife poisons him to alleviate her grief. _It could be. It could be._ Could it not?

In a flash, Gerard found himself outdoors, with the door slamming him in the back. He landed face-forwards into the mud, his glasses ricocheting from the porch railing and scattering to the pavement.

She's impulsive, he tried to think, groping around for his sight. _She could have. She could have._ Yet… so honest were those eyes. So righteous was that countenance.

It was an old saying that the best detective could be ruined by a pretty woman.

Gerard sighed and got to his knees, still in futile search for his glasses. A moment later, a hand tapped him on the shoulder. The glasses were carefully returned to his face by careful, gentle hands, and the grey eyes met his once more.

"I know why you're here," came the whisper in his ear. "I know you think I did it. I had all the reason to. He was evil, I tell you. Evil. He struck me, he beat me, he treated me like a rag doll. Don't think he would not to do the same to you. Believed in all sorts of nonsense, too. Superstitions. Wouldn't cross a road after a black cat. Wouldn't walk under a ladder. And that daughter of his – he loved her until he found out she survived in that awful fire. Pleasant, kind girl she was…"

Another moment, and the hand was gone. The world swirled around Gerard – the sign, the rickety house, the red shoes, and the whisper of November rain.

…

He walked towards Calypso's house in a daze. People jostled him to and fro – Muggles, mostly. Muggles hurrying to get on the ferry, to make it home in time for afternoon tea when the clock struck six over the anthill of a city. The bells chimed in tune with the first evening stars.

_One._ Puddles whipped up and lashed at his knees, the clouds weighing down on the man's shoulders. Another step forward. Another. Another. Another.

_Two._ A sleet of rain crashed into his face. The Muggles were not worried – the Muggles did not hold dilemmas in their heads. He meant life to be a fun and lighthearted adventure. Puzzles and mystery. _Those mysteries weren't meant to make him responsible. He was frightened. Frightened of hardships._

_Three._ He was a coward. A miserly coward, who would not see man or woman behind bars, who would run from responsibility, run from life, run from his duty. Run.

_Four._ A boy ran headfirst into him. The briefcase fell and scattered over the muddy cobblestone. "Sorry!" cried the youngster. With a flash of light in the young eyes, the briefcase was back in Gerard's hands. The detective stared before him, unseeing. The lad smiled. A woman's cry in the distance. "Albus! Albus Percival, _come here at once_!" The boy grinned and ran off into the misty fog, shouting into ages ahead. Into glory, into corruption, into downfall. "Coming, mother!"

_Five._ What is justice? More importantly, what is human justice? The criminal gave his own justice. He chose whose time it was to die. The word echoed in Gerard's head. _Justice…. Justice….. justice_… and yet, justice is what he had chosen. He had to keep people safe, and that meant being just. And then a thought came into his mind. Was he willing to risk his life for it? _No,_ a voice rang in his head in tune with the wind. _You are not, coward. You are not. You are not. You are not._

_Six_. Seline smiled at him, skirt whipping through the sleet, the fog, and the downpour. She ran a hand through her hair, dirt, mist and a thin strand of black hair slipping into her fingers.

"Goodnight, Mr. Detective."


End file.
